


Better be Prepared to be Surprised

by AnnaofAza



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Artist Keith (Voltron), Getting Together, Journalism, M/M, Mutual Pining, No co-opting social/political movements or orgs here btw, Photographer Shiro (Voltron), References to Depression, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Slightly Unethical Journalism Practices, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:49:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26516239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: Shiro documents. Keith creates.Or, Shiro is an ex-wartime and disaster photographer working in what’s supposed to be a temporary journalism job, until he meets a local chalk artist and community organizer, who shows him what life can hold.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 40
Kudos: 105
Collections: Sheith Prompt Party 2020





	Better be Prepared to be Surprised

**Author's Note:**

> My prompt for this was "Keith is a chalk artist and Shiro is the press photographer assigned to document his story," and hopefully whoever requested this is happy with this AU! 
> 
> Eternal thanks, as always, to my beta and friend Sarah, who also suggested the title based off of [this song.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ld7_YNZ5rI) <3 
> 
> Also thanks to my artist, [JobiDraws](https://twitter.com/JobiDraws), who helped me brainstorm this world, exchanged fun sheith AUs with me, and drew a lovely piece for this fic! You can find it [ here](https://64.media.tumblr.com/2d306f775478f19621fa887b32e65b5e/d671eafd26f47660-88/s640x960/9ed150a665b16d50acf4be12d819fa6e6af381bc.png).

_Photos: Volunteer community festival chalk artist creates worlds, inspires at-risk teens_

_By Takashi Shirogane | Special for the Garrison Gazette_

_Community artist and activist Keith Kogane was the star of the show at the launch of a new community outreach program, The Voltron Coalition. Kogane was inspired to join four friends (See more here…)_

* * *

It’s a beautiful day, and Shiro’s stuck inside. 

By all means, he should be grateful; the journalism industry has gone to shit. He’d survived the last round of layoffs, stood through the hastily-thrown together good-bye parties and cookies, signed his name with a vaguely optimistic but impersonal message on cards. 

But that means Shiro’s covering all the photo duties (and more) until the paper decides to hire someone, and they’re not in a hurry. Local papers don’t even _have_ speciality photographers anymore; it’s too expensive and there’s a newer generation that knows how to write articles, take photos and videos from their cell phones, and multitask like no tomorrow. Some—like that slightly twitchy intern Griffin—even know coding _._

Shiro takes another glance around the open-plan office, everyone tapping at their keyboard or sitting by the phone like a teenager on prom night. He wishes he had an office; he’s worked here long enough. But they’re glass boxes, with shutters that do the bare minimum of shielding from prying eyes, with no windows. It’s almost not worth it. 

But maybe he could sleep. Despite his morning mug of coffee, he’s exhausted, waking up from the same dream. A blue sky, then a sharp _pop_ , the sound of shattering glass — then darkness. He’d worried, then, about his eyes, the most prized possession of a photographer. 

It turned out that his eyes weren’t the thing to be worried about. 

Swinging his feet, Shiro sits, staring blankly at his screen, where his timecard flashes accusingly at him. _Do something,_ it says. _You signed in two hours ago._

Today’s a Sunday, unbearably slow most days, and now… not even a car crash or breaking stories from last night that need updating. Not that he’d _wish_ for a car crash, but—

“Shirogane!” 

“Yes?” he asks, swiveling around in his chair, trying to look like he had been doing work. 

Iverson sighs. He’s been doing that a lot lately. “I messaged you on Slack. Didn’t you get it?” 

Shiro blinks innocently. “No…?” He probably forgot to turn on his alerts. Again. 

“Well, it looks like a slow news day,” Iverson begins, and Shiro mentally groans. Any other job would be _there’s nothing to do, so go home,_ but not journalism. This means a pointless task or useless assignment…

“There’s a community outreach festival going on downtown, and they’ve been messaging the hell out of us to attend. Why not make ‘em happy—snap some photos, write down quotes, the usual.” 

“Right,” Shiro says slowly. “But what exactly—” 

“Check your email; details are in there,” Iverson interrupts, then trudges back to his cubicle, placed just beneath one of the screens playing a sports feed. Hockey, this time. 

Shiro sighs, reaches for his camera bag. Maybe he had the wrong idea about an office; he should try to move his cubicle under one of the news feeds when he gets back.

* * *

Press pass. Three lenses. Extra batteries. SIM card in and empty. H1N1. Collapsible tripod. Clip-on. Notepad. Several pens. Water bottle. Two granola bars. Light kit—he seriously doubts he needed it, but Iverson insisted.

He checks and rechecks his bag on his ride there—on the bus, since the Garrison Gazette refuses to comp his travel unless it meets certain requirements. As petty revenge, he takes public transport, something Iverson grumbles about but doesn’t press. 

For the third time, he scrolls through the email, something about community outreach to a certain neighborhood, _would you please come, etc etc etc_. He’s tried to search the organization and names, but nothing really comes up; it all seems pretty new. 

So he’d have to learn on the job. Wouldn’t be the first time. 

Finally, Shiro reaches his stop and double-checks that he has his bag before hopping off. 

With Google Maps and its handy location tracker as his guide—hey, he’s all for staying off the grid, but he’s too directionally-stupid—he finds it: a parking lot set up with all sorts of booths and tables. 

To his surprise, it’s fairly populated, even with its droopy, sun-bleached booths and rickety white tables and chairs that remind him of high school carnivals. Ballpoint pens dangle from plastic lanyards or a single thread of string, taped to clipboards or swinging from tables. Balloons of every color are tied around chairs and tables and around kids’ arms. There’s the sweet, sticky smell of cotton candy and buttered popcorn; Shiro’s stomach rumbles. 

He takes it in, then fumbles with his bag, unzipping it and releasing the lens cap and inserting the cap with a nice little twist and click, fiddling with the settings. Sunlight, take account of that shade from those trees, too bright here, who or what did he want to focus on, exactly? Perhaps a few background shots first. 

There’s a foundation of point and shoot, but Shiro tries to at least move his feet, squat on the ground, get up on a nearby bench. He checks the visual image, dials back the aperture, deletes a few, and keeps going. The click of the shutter is reassuring, like he’s doing something, with each press of the button a decision.

“Hey!” 

Shiro looks up from his viewfinder, as a guy with skinny limbs and a blue shirt waves frantically at him. “Are you the Gazette guy? The reporter?” 

“Yeah,” Shiro says. 

“Well, good, someone showed up!” He sticks out his hand, and Shiro automatically takes it, trying not to wince when the man gives a double take at his right arm. “Cool, man. Keith can stop complaining.” 

“Keith? Is he the leader?” Shiro asks, pulling out his notepad. 

The man laughs. “Kind of. The bills are addressed to him, if that counts. We’re all in this together, really.” 

“How many of you are there?” 

“Five, for now,” the man says. “Keith, of course; me, Pidge, Hunk. We sort of got a fifth sometimes—she’s starting her own media thing so she won’t be here long—and at least a few of my relatives that I blackmailed. Um. Don’t quote me on that.” 

Shiro laughs. “Off the record, got it. Uh, can I have your name, age, title, if that’s possible? And spell it all out, please?” 

“Oh, geez, yeah. Lance. Lance McClain—Lance like...the traditional way, like the weapon, and McClain…” He starts rattling off letters at lightning speed, as Shiro jots it all down and holds up the notepad for inspection. “This all right?” 

Lance gives a quick scan. “Yeah! Well, I guess...let me show you around, if that’s how you do things? Or am I supposed to hang back? We never really had media at things like these.” 

“Do what you normally do and try to ignore me,” Shiro says. “But I wouldn’t mind a tour to start.” 

Lance guides him around what seems to be an abandoned parking lot, pointing to various people and booths and cocking his head while Shiro takes photos and writes captions, the basic bones of the story. He’s used to people staring curiously at him while he works, and like most, Lance quickly gets used to it and starts talking about himself. 

“So, since we’re sort of a small group, we do a lot of different things,” Lance explains. “I’m like the entertainer-idea-de facto media person. So just crafts and community theater and sometimes local field trips, to the park or something. 

“Hunk does the cooking or brings the snacks for some stuff. We want to do a community cooking class for the kids, but we definitely don’t have enough to do it—money and supplies and none of our places will work. But that’s our dream—one of them, anyway.” 

Shiro gets close-ups of his hands serving the food with tongs or plastic spoons, the small fires burning underneath the covered aluminum tins of what Lance promises will be fried rice and empanadas. Hunk offers to save him one, then holds out a cool glass of water to Lance when he sees him wipe some sweat off his forehead, only to have it snatched away. 

“Pidge!” Lance groans theatrically. 

Pidge only flips him off, and Lance lunges at her. “Pidge! There are kids here!” 

Laughing, Pidge ducks away, and sauntes off to her booth. She’s skinny, with auburn hair cut sharply around her face, as if she’d hacked it on the way there, with large glasses. Soon, her face is set in intense concentration as she frantically types under the shade onto a computer, elbow next to an open cash box stuffed with bills and coins. 

“Treasurer-ish,” Lance says, a small smile on his face. “Teaches the kids to code and do all those electric-y things with Hunk. We have some mini robot parts coming this afternoon; her brother got stuck in traffic.” 

“Coding?” Shiro asks. “That’s pretty cool.” 

“Yeah, she’s great. We try to set up where there’s good bandwidth and everything. Luckily, we got someone to send us some computers so at least the kids have something to practice on.” 

Shiro takes more notes, more shots, as Lance leads them up to a guy drawing a hopscotch game on the sidewalk, complete with red mushrooms and yellow flowers. A bunch of kids are perched near him like birds, wiggling in anticipation, and Shiro can’t help but smile. 

“Keith.” 

Keith, hair covering his face, ignores them. 

“Right. Well, as you can see, Keith doesn’t do the public relations thing.” Lance lowers his voice. “But really, he’s a good guy—does our social and art programs and works with a lot of the kids.” Somewhere, a loud crash echoes across the parking lot; Shiro tries not to flinch. “I should check on that. Uh, have fun.” 

Shiro takes a deep breath, trying to steady his hands. The hot sun is different here: the smells are, too, and kids laughing. He can do this. 

He walks around, chats with almost everyone, sticks one of Hunk’s empanadas in his mouth and almost bursts into song. Pidge’s brother, Matt, who’s got his hair tied back in a ponytail and looks like a carbon copy of his sister, begins setting up what he declares as “Robot Central,” covertly whispering to Shiro, “Expect a robot death match at the end.” Lance is everywhere, dropping one thing to attend to the next, kids trailing after him like the Pied Piper, even allowing a little girl in pink sundress to paint his face with what Shiro thinks looks like a blue cat. 

Shiro ends up saving Keith for last, mostly because when he tries looking for him, he’s gone or has his hands full. But when he does corner Keith, it’s when he’s surrounded by another flock of kids, giggling and shouting requests for different Disney characters and shapes and animals, as Keith obligingly draws one request after another. 

“Lance handles the press,” Keith says without looking up. 

He’s used to this. Shiro's interviewed people before who didn’t want to talk to him, all in varying tropes. Sticking to the script. Hanging up. Flat-out walking away. 

But Keith is different. He's not hiding a scandal or harboring a distrust of his words being twisted. It's simply because he's reserved. 

So he sticks to photographing. Keith kneeling on the ground, tracing an outline on the asphalt. Shading in bright reds and blues and greens, chalk dust on his knees and fingers. Laying out supplies for the kids, some lying flat on their stomachs trying to copy his drawings or simply staring, entranced. Truly magnificent, detailed drawings of space and cacti and blocky creatures. 

The last gives him a pause. There's definitely a story there. 

“Uh, Keith?” 

Keith looks up, and Shiro’s mind goes offline. His eyes are a startlingly deep blue, with dark hair hanging over his face, partially tied back in a low ponytail. He has a red jacket, obviously well-loved, and jeans that have been washed many times. 

“Can you tell me—” he gestures at the drawings. “About these? They’re really good.” 

Keith glances towards Lance, who’s running a one-man puppet show, complete with different voices and a colorful array of socks. “He handles the press, like I said.”

“But I need a quote from _you_. Or at least a caption for the photos.”

Sighing, Keith shrugs. “Okay. I’m Keith Kogane. K-O-G-A-N-E. Um, I’m sort of the art teacher here. Watercolors, finger paint, pottery, some drawing. Um.” He looks helplessly at one of the kids, whose responses are to ignore him in favor of more coloring. 

Shiro points to one of the chalk drawings, clear lines and bright colors. It looks like a space soldier, complete with armor, and nearby are others: blue, green, yellow. Some wield weapons, others seem to patting the nose of what look like giant cats, the same color as their armor. “Can you tell me about those?” 

"Paladins. It's this silly world I made up, but the kids like it. Space adventures."

That's really enough for Shiro to call it an interview, but he keeps going. "The faces look familiar." 

Keith ducks his head, as he points to the chalk-drawn faces. "Pidge. Hunk. Lance. It became a game when one of the kids drew the Red Paladin and added me in there."

“Keithhh, tell him about the adventures!” someone protests. He’s coloring a purple monster, with cat-like ears and spiky armor, and waves around chalk for emphasis. “The evil Galra Empire! No, no, the space ninjas!” 

“No, the princess!” another kid insists, who’s squatting near another drawing, a woman with white hair and pink armor. “She’s pretty and fights aliens with an electric whip!”

That seems to unleash a flood of excitement: everyone chattering about their favorite stories, and it’s clear it’s not simply a “silly world.” It’s actually elaborate, but not so much that the kids can’t follow, with a lot of lasers and asteroids and robot lions. A few have what Shiro now recognizes as the lions painted on their faces; one even carries an obviously homemade and well-loved comic book of sorts, stapled computer paper with crayon drawings. 

He starts taking notes furiously, so quickly that the pen slides from his grip a few times. Keith’s watching him, arms crossed, with a faint flush creeping across his face. 

And Shiro’s pleased to see a smile quirk the side of Keith’s mouth when he asks the kids, then the kids’ parents, if it’s all right that he takes a group photo among the chalk drawings. The kids love it, striking poses and waving around their chalk, with Keith shuffling shyly so he’s not in the photo. Afterwards, Shiro shows them all the photos, the kids oohing and ahhing and pressing the buttons with the kind of reverence only given to Saturday afternoon cartoons.

“People usually don’t ask,” Keith says wryly, as Shiro patiently double-checks the names of each and every kid. 

Shiro shrugs. “They’re kids. First rule of photojournalism: ask permission.” He leans forward. “Trust me. No one wants to be the face of a sob story. I know…” He catches himself; that’s why he moved here, after all, to be some anonymous photographer for a local paper. “Anyway. I always ask.” 

Keith gives him a second, almost approving glance, and Shiro’s first instinct is the usual: to hope that Keith doesn’t look too closely at his face, doesn’t even remember his name once the story’s published. But something plaintive cries out, and he ends up scribbling onto his notepad and ripping off the page to hand to Keith: "My number. In case you want to follow up, or complain to my editor." 

Keith huffs through his nose, the faintest hint of a laugh, and takes the paper, folding it into fourths and slipping into the back of his jeans pocket.

* * *

Shiro uploads the photos to the server first thing, then spends a good chunk editing and writing captions before filing them, leaning back in his chair with a sigh of relief. 

“This is all very well and good, but most of these are of the chalk artist,” Iverson says a mere five minutes later, clearly exasperated. “Your assignment was the festival. The _entire_ one.”

“It could be a feature?” Shiro suggests lamely. 

His editor rolls his eyes. “The community doesn't know this guy, Shirogane. Are you suggesting a photo story? With him just drawing?” Iverson looks at one and pauses. “Okay, they _are_ nice drawings. We might be able to work with this. Let production know and they'll throw something together.”

From Iverson, that’s as good as a pat on the back. The fact that he's not cutting or changing anything is a victory in and of itself, and as a celebration, Shiro vows to get takeout that evening.

* * *

The photo gallery comes out with relatively okay fanfare. He doesn’t normally pay attention to the analytics team, but actually tries to promote it with all he’s got: sharing it on his social accounts, negotiating with one of the producers to have it on the top spot of the Culture and Local sections, and emailing Voltron for them to distribute, if they want. 

Shiro hasn’t felt this way about a project in a long time, and as he keeps clicking through the gallery, he thinks of the paper he slipped Keith. Had he thrown it away into one of the garbage bins at the end of the day? Kept it still folded in his desk drawer? Plugged it into his phone? Simply forgot about it altogether?

The festival is over. Done. There’s no demand from his editors or even readers for a follow-up. 

But he opens his email, and without thinking, begins to type a new message.

* * *

They settle on a coffee shop, and Shiro buys his own, remembering the old _don’t let sources pay for anything that can be construed as a gift._

If your integrity could be bought with a coffee, he thinks, not for the first time, then you weren’t a good journalist to begin with. 

Still, old habits are hard to break, and he sits at a table, waiting. He’s early— _always arrive at least half an hour before—_ so he pulls out his laptop. There’s some mindless stuff he’s been putting off doing: captioning photos, organizing his files, moving some into the cloud, killing old stuff. 

Shiro has a hoarders’ personality when it comes to computers. Even when it’s dated from the early 2000s, he still looks at it, gets lost in a memory, and lets it stay. So maybe that’s not the best idea. 

So he puts it off, surfing the Internet on the reasonably speedy public Wi-Fi. More news. A quiz about what kind of dog he is. Checking his email, deleting one with a wince. Clicking through LinkedIn invites. He sees a few familiar faces there, with _Wish them a happy 12 years at their job!_ notifications. As he idly scrolls, he catches the names of places, some of them new, even clicks on an ad. _Photographer wanted…_

“Hey.” 

Shiro looks up, fighting the urge to close his laptop. “Hey.” 

Keith cuts right to the chase: “You want to write more about me.” 

“I think what you’re doing is interesting,” he says honestly. 

Keith raises an eyebrow. “Are you saying the rest of my team isn’t?” 

“No,” he sputters. “I just…” He sees a flicker of amusement in Keith’s eyes. “You’re making fun of me.” 

“Not you.” To Shiro’s surprise, Keith grabs a chair and sits right down. “I was just curious. I don’t think I’m interesting.” 

It’s an old line, usually used by sources who do, in fact, think themselves interesting. But this seems sincere. “If I didn’t think so, I wouldn’t have called.” 

His bluntness seems to do the trick. “Fair enough.” Keith begins swirling his fingers around on the table, like finger painting. “I saw your photos, by the way. Didn’t complain to the editor.” 

“Good,” Shiro says. “I mean, I’m happy you liked them. Enough.” 

“I’ve always wanted to learn photography,” Keith says. “But drawing yourself… it seems a bit easier. More controlled.” He shakes his head. “That was a terrible explanation. Don’t quote me on that.” 

“The beauty about not being in live broadcasts,” Shiro says, “is being able to try again.” 

Keith nods. “All right. Let me get coffee first.”

* * *

One coffee meet-up turns into two, then a lunch, then a dinner, then sporadic jaunts to the park. Sometimes it became evening, and one of them suggested going somewhere to eat or get something hot to drink, then it went from there. 

And each time, whenever Keith’s hosting a beginner’s paint class or helping Lance repair damaged puppets from an enthusiastic and spitty audience or even just watching the Voltron staff take phone calls for donations, Shiro falls deeper and deeper. 

It’s hanging around someone not in the newsroom, or connected to his past. Even outside the office is an improvement. But to reduce it to that seems like an insult to Keith, because Shiro likes him. His steady hands, his finger touching his chin in thought, his off-kelter ponytail, the blotches on the sides of his palms and on the thighs of his jeans. His patience with the kids, the lack of bullshit without throwing away the kindness, the smirk when he teases Lance back or throws out an idea that makes Pidge nod in approval. How untethered he seems to be on the surface, but with clear devotion to his work, to his colleagues, to his mission. 

Maybe it’s simply pure infatuation: being with Keith is like staring at a piece of artwork, different shapes and colors and interpretations popping up like mushrooms after rain the more he looks. 

Maybe it’s jealousy: on the surface, Keith seems a lot like who he used to be, all hands in, mind working overtime, forging a clear path ahead, seemingly answering to no one but what he feels is right. 

Maybe it’s fascination: Shiro just records what’s in front of him. Keith constructs worlds, better ones. There’s focus on the problems, too, like free breakfasts before school or the lack of any kid-oriented activities in the neighborhood, but it’s an emphasis on a clean slate, a ground scorched to ashes with the potential to create anything. 

From giggly, easily-sidetracked toddlers to cationic, sometimes snarky teenagers, Keith seems to unite them all. There’s Hunk’s food, Pidge’s special skills, Lance’s entertainment, but for some reason, everyone seems to cluster around Voltron, whether it’s coloring in outlines Keith patiently prints out every morning or designing pages of comics. 

“Stories are a way to disappear, I guess,” Keith says, when Shiro broaches the subject during clean-up. 

“Stories tell you how to live,” Lance argues, a hot pink feather boa wound around his neck, tiny feathers and sparkles still stuck in his hair. “To express yourself! To be—”

“Or not to be,” Pidge quips. 

“Are we getting into a philosophical debate?” Hunk asks, sweeping crumbs off another table. “Too bad Allura isn’t here. She’d be like, _to hold a mirror to real life_ _in order to expose it… or change it for the better!_ ”

“To leave behind a legacy!” Lance says, brandishing a glitter stick. 

Keith looks at Shiro and rolls his eyes. In some ways, he’s very much like one of the teenagers. “It’s fun?” 

“Should I quote you on that?”

“I told you I’m not the media person. Can’t you just… copy and paste our mission statement from the website?” 

“No,” Shiro says, gently but firmly. “It’s supposed to be about _you_. Since you’re the founder.” 

Keith shoots an almost pleading look at Lance, who’s determinedly looking away. “Some help you are, McClain.”

“Hey, you need media practice. All of us do! I wonder if Allura could train us one day…” 

“You just want to see her again,” Hunk says. 

Lance sputters, as Pidge puts a paper towel over her head, bats her eyelashes, and proclaims in a terrible British accent, “ _Oh, Lance! Verily, I’m flattered at your incessant pining! Anon!”_

He lunges for her, only to land chin-first on the ground, Pidge holding her stomach and cackling, with Hunk running to get frozen peas from the freezer. Shiro watches the commotion, grinning, noticing that Keith has taken the opportunity to slink away.

* * *

Shiro opens his browser one morning, and searches Keith, battling against the old internal _is this stalking or good background research?_ debate. There’s little social media, all private, and he has to click back about a decade in the news archives to find: 

_A 51-year-old firefighter died after battling a six-story apartment fire in central Phoenix late Thursday evening. Officials said the firefighter, Trevor Kogane, suffered from smoke inhalation and died at the hospital early Friday morning. He’s survived by his 7-year-old son…_

No one had run a picture, seeing as Keith was so young. There’s a brief or two, about the funeral, but Shiro closes his laptop and doesn’t search for Keith again. 

* * *

Shiro wonders if he’s doing this right. He knows he needs to do better, but it’s a common litany these days, so tiresome that he’d change the station once he hears the first opening note. They were like the spilled coffee grounds in the grout of his countertop tile or water stains in the tub: not a big deal, he’d get around to them eventually.

On his off days, when there’s nothing on his schedule, nothing to be beholden to anyone, he putters around his apartment, trying to muster up the will to do something. Send out his resume. Do household chores. Meal prep for the week. But most of the time, he lays in bed, or on the kitchen floor, and dozes off. 

He’s wasting his time, he knows. But he’s always been a vivid dreamer, and that makes up for a lot of colorless things in his life. The clear waters of a beach across the sea, bare toes wiggling in the salt-white sand. The streaks of stars across a pitch-black sky, grass underneath his bare thighs. The crack of aniseed between his teeth, strong and medicinal woven in with butter and spices and red that stains his fingertips. The old _first day of school_ nightmares, people crackling in and out of his recorder, the ring he left in an envelope in a rusted mailbox. Once, Keith, tracing the outline of Shiro’s body in white chalk, pastel flowers blooming around his head; Shiro had woken up in a pool of sweat on his cotton sheets that made him finally start laundry day. 

Sometimes, his back of his head pounds, and it becomes a game: how long can he hold out? How long can he stand the pain? Most times, he pushes through, sickly proud of himself. It’s only a few times where he has to spend a whole day with the shades drawn and lights off, a cold pack on his head and the two prescribed round blue pills that make him sleepy. 

On these occasions, he doesn’t dream. The world is quiet, and he dislikes it so much that he’d rather hold the pain close.

* * *

“You know, you should write all this paladin stuff down,” Shiro says one day.

“I keep meaning to, but…” Keith shrugs. “The kids contribute, so it’s their story as much as it’s mine.” He flicks a bit of chalk dust off his fingers and continues marking up an elaborate hopscotch game for the afternoon’s session. Across his nose is a streak of green, something Shiro keeps meaning to point out but doesn’t. “Besides, who would read it?” 

“I would.” 

Keith glances up, rolls his eyes. In the background, there’s a shriek and a loud crash and wild laughter: Pidge and Lance again, no doubt. “You’re the one making fun of me this time.” 

“Never,” Shiro promises. “Just Lance.” 

This time, there’s a snort. “I’m glad you got that Paris plaster disaster on film. I told him that it hardens faster than he’d think…” 

“The kids enjoyed it,” Shiro jokes. “That’s what matters.” 

Keith laughs, then turns his attention to another square. For a while, Shiro watches him draw more, and suddenly, Keith says, eyes down on the ground and voice muffled, “When I was in foster care, they’d mostly plop me down in front of the TV. And at school, I was always the new kid or the loner, so I spent time either in the art room or the library. Just having something to do, to take my mind off things helped.” 

He swipes a line of pink, then rubs it, dust gathering on his fingertips. “I mean, we do the traditional food banking and stuff, and there’s a lot of great local organizations that already do that. But I guess I wanted to fill the spaces in between surviving, you know?” 

Shiro nods, as Keith lets his hair fall down and cover his face again. He closes his eyes briefly and lets the words sink into his memory: for his notes, he tells himself, but has a feeling they won’t make it there.

* * *

Another thing Iverson would care about if he actually did: Shiro inserting himself into the story. 

He answers questions on how he takes photos. Helps clean up afterwards. Hauls stuff too heavy for the kids. Chats with Lance and Hunk and Pidge and Keith about their marketing strategy, offers some design tips for their site and photos. Uploads a few of them to their site. Plays foosball with Matt when things get slow. Continues to get coffee with Keith after events. 

This is a journalism no-no. But he doesn’t care, and keeps going back. 

One day, Keith offers him a piece of chalk, more for a joke than anything, and starts laughing at Shiro’s attempt at a panda, with its too-big, balloon-like ears and purple anime eyes. 

“Stick to photos,” Keith teases, and Shiro mock-pouts and draws a big blue tear down the panda’s face. 

The kids that are tromping through the lot to get to Pidge’s coding class see his attempt and start cracking up, but Shiro doesn’t mind at all, not when he gets to see Keith smile. 

Later, he goes back when the yard’s empty and hosed down for the day, and smiles to see the panda completely untouched.

* * *

Shiro’s stopped bringing his notepad weeks ago. 

He bounces back between _this is just another interview_ and _you should be getting notes!_ Iverson’s assigned him some stuff in the meantime, but he keeps pestering Shiro about his story, when it’s going to be done, if he has an abstract, even an _idea_ beyond “local artist profile.” 

At least Shiro still takes pictures. That he can at least tell Iverson. But they’re less and less about action shots and telling a narrative and more pointing the lens at Keith. 

Shiro sorts through them at the office, trying not to push down the feeling that he’s doing something elicit. A close-up of Keith’s face, tentatively high-fiving a teenager at the community garden over a new sprout of peas. Keith’s eyes, closed in bliss, as he savors a hot chocolate while rain patters against the windows. Hands shoved into a red jacket, with a weathered scarf and a knit cap that reads _Form Voltron_ in lumsy white letters. His tongue poking out as he draws another Paladin. 

He thinks he’s broken his streak when he flips to another photo, only to realize they’re shots that never got published. Keith, that first day, knees baptized in bright chalk dust. The sun glinting against his hair. His fingers tracing the slow curve of a moon. 

_Oh, man._

His phone buzzes, and he looks down; he’s been waiting to hear back from a city official that will likely tell him “No comment,” so he can write “Officials declined to comment” and go home. 

Instead, it’s from Keith.

“My place Sunday?” it asks.

* * *

When Shiro comes in through the door, after being buzzed in and led through a hallway of decrepit mailboxes and what looked like a dead rat, Keith offers him coffee. 

And once Keith goes into the kitchen, Shiro can’t help it: the pages are scattered on every surface, and he's a journalist. In frenzied ink, bleeding highlighters, slashes of charcoal are drawings. Of boot treads in dirt, flecks of pebbles ground into dots. Of a face Shiro does not recognize, with a square jaw and cut across his eyebrow. Of parking meters and bustling crowds and a stretch of desert night. And the lions—angular and powerful and graceful, mouths bared in a growl. 

“Coffee’s here,” Keith says, standing over him with two mugs, eyebrow raised. 

"I'm sorry," Shiro says, scooting away. 

"They were everywhere," Keith says. "You were free to look." His eyes rest on another sketch, of a cactus, leaves spread out like a blooming flower. 

"They're good," Shiro says lamely. "I mean, I knew with your chalk drawings, but..." 

Keith laughs shortly. "Thanks." 

They sort through them as they make small talk, Keith saying _This is from maybe two days ago, when I saw some weird mushrooms growing from the sidewalk,_ Shiro making what he hopes are encouraging yet thoughtful comments. 

“But you know how to analyze this shit,” Keith says, after another hopefully not-inane comment about the effects of shadows. “You’re an artist.” 

Shiro laughs. “Me? I just shoot what’s there. You create.” 

“The same can be said with me. I just look at something and try to remember it, grab whatever’s good about it.” 

“That’s different. You put your own spin on it. It means something.” 

“You’re telling me your work as a photojournalist doesn’t mean something?” 

Shiro flushes. “It sounds bad when you say it like that. But we’re not supposed to have an agenda or a spin, really. You’re supposed to be...capturing the moment. For the audience. Even if I am a freelancer, technically.” 

“Still,” Keith says. “You _choose_ what to photograph.” 

“And my editors sometimes cut it.” 

“But you choose. You act. Who cares about who rejects it? They’re looking at it from their own perspective, and it might not even be good.” 

Shiro laughs again. “Tell that to the folks at Pulitzer.” 

Keith nudges him. “Hey, you won one.”

Shiro startles—when did Keith look into him?—trying to push it down. He doesn’t have a monopoly on researching people. It was something everyone could, and often did, with the world’s largest source of information at their fingertips. 

But how much does Keith _know_? 

“So blame them,” he ends up joking. 

And then Shiro starts talking, rambling really, trying to bury whatever information Keith’s read about him. 

How he remembers slinging his camera over his neck and heading out into the field with a bounce in his step, eye peeking through the viewfinder and snapping away. It was the one thing he knew how to do, that flew into his fingers like magic, ever since he joined his high school’s yearbook committee to get closer to his crush. He took classes later on the rule of thirds and framing and balancing the exposure triangle—ISO and aperture and shutter speed—but sometimes, he couldn’t explain _why._ It just looked right that way—something that his professors and peers groaned at. 

He didn’t have to use words, something that took him ages to craft and never quite sounded the way they should, like a keyboard attempting a masterpiece by a full choir and an organ. The images stood for themselves. They told the story _for_ him.

And how his passion turned into work, a joyless repetition: Another day. Another day of sitting in the office and compressing files or taking online quizzes until his assignments rolled in. Another day taking a ridiculous amount of photos and editing each one into perfection, only for his editor to use only two at the most. Another day of writing dull captions on automatic: _so-so-so (left) at the annual hot dog-eating contest_ with the tedious _month, day, year_ format tacked onto the end. 

How he thinks about walking out the door and leaving for good. He wouldn’t even pack up his desk. But after that, what does he have? 

So he stays put.

“Even then, I don’t think I was really that happy,” Shiro admits quietly. “But I thought I was doing something then, helping people understand all the tragedies in the world, but it keeps eating at you. You can’t refuse an assignment, not when you’re starting out—and then it becomes a habit. You get used to thriving in a high pressure environment and you think this is what I’m good at. And then when it’s done, you’re standing still and you don’t know what to do and you wonder if it’s all worth it.” 

Shiro takes a deep breath, still not looking at Keith. 

“I get that,” Keith says softly. “I just…” He fingers the edge of one of his sketches. “This was a way, you know, of defense. People look at you and see this poor little orphan or a delinquent or someone different. Prickly. Draws the wrong kind of attention, or something.” Keith smiles thinly. “So I had my art,” he says, sneering around the word as if he doesn’t quite believe it. “I was just the quiet moody artist. Not the worst thing to be.” 

Shiro thinks of the honor rolls, the certificates, the trophies, the prizes lined up in a row, in frames proudly over his desk, his name in ink. The doctor’s appointments. The worried gazes. The tapping of hospital spats on the scrubbed floor. “No,” he agrees. 

Keith shrugs. “Well. We all want something. It doesn’t mean you get it.” 

“What do you want?” 

“Me? Funding, I guess, for Voltron. To—” 

“No. For you. Just… whatever you want.” 

For a moment, Shiro’s worried he’s offended Keith—the silence stretches long like a strand of bubblegum. Then Keith says, “Maybe a studio of some kind. Easel, revolving desk, concrete floor, whatever. Well-lit. Cool in the summers. Like an actual artist living in a loft, doing all the gallery shit with champagne.”

Shiro hates Keith’s lack of confidence that comes up whenever he mentions his work. “You are an artist.” 

“Eh,” Keith says. “I’ve never been to a formal school. Never really been taught. It was something that kept me quiet or amused classmates or focused me.”

“And then you fell in love with it.” 

Keith looks up, startled, then smiles, but not quite meeting his eyes. “You’ve been stalking me around childhood, too?”

“No,” Shiro says simply. “It’s just a familiar story.”

* * *

Later, Shiro thinks, _I could use this._ He didn’t say _off the record_. 

But he doesn’t write a word, not even when Iverson says meaningfully during the morning meeting, “Story done yet, Shirogane?” 

“Almost,” he lies. 

The chief editor, Sanda, sighs impatiently. “Iverson’s indulged you long enough. If you don’t have a story, just say so and you can concentrate on other things.” 

“Are there any problems with my work?” 

To him, it’s sharper than anything he’s said in a long time, and he can see by the raise of her eyebrows that she’s startled too. “No, but… we still don’t know what this is, exactly. An enterprise? A follow-up feature? An op-ed? Do we need to assign a writer?” 

“No,” he says, surprised that he sounds so insistent. “I got this. I’ll write something up, I have the photos, I can file it by next week.” 

Sanda sighs again, and turns to Iverson. “Please make sure it happens,” she says sharply, and turns back to the room. Now, according to our Chartbeat and Social Flow numbers…”

* * *

“So, what are you going to do when this is over?” Keith asks. His tongue’s at the corner of his mouth, intense concentration as a chalk tree blooms across the asphalt, leaves unfolding and dappled with sunlight, shadows revealing colorful birds with intricate, robotic parts. Shiro’s ostensibly supposed to have been shooting him, but he’s sat on the curb, camera nestled between his knees, lens cap still on, just drinking in the sight. 

_Kids come by here a lot,_ Keith says. _Technically, I don’t have a permit for this, but you can easily hose it away, so no one really writes you up for vandalism. But there’s something magical about walking near an alley, and bam! There it is._

He watches Keith shade in more feathers, tipped in silver. “I haven’t thought about it.” That’s true. “I just like…” _Photographing you. Talking to you. Being with you._ “Maybe just the same.” 

Keith stops drawing, dusting the chalk off his hands with a few claps and swipes of his hands. “You really don’t seem happy in that job. When we last talked…” 

“I was just being dramatic.” 

“You love photography. You just...it’s this job. This place, maybe.” 

Shiro frowns. “You think I should move?” 

“No! I mean, if you…” Keith shakes his head, sighs. “Look,” he says bluntly. “Before our first coffee shop meet-up, I looked through your news site; it’s shitty. The captions are misspelled, someone switched an officer’s photo with one of the police dogs in a murder story, you print letters to the editor, and you run, like, corrections almost every week. But your stuff? You’re actually _good_. What are you doing there?” 

The words sting, though Keith’s right. “It’s temporary.” 

“You’ve been here for _years_ , Shiro. Is that what the news business calls temporary?” 

Suddenly, he feels defensive. “You don’t _always_ have to love your job.” 

“No,” Keith says. He plops down beside Shiro, his hands and wrists streaked with rainbow colors. “But you shouldn’t always hate it. I see you just taking photos when you’re off or here, and you’re...different. You want to do it. But then I see you go into the office or come back and it’s like someone sucked the soul out of you.” 

This time, Shiro can’t say anything back. Because Keith’s right, of course. 

“What do you want, Shiro?” Keith now asks. “For you?” 

He looks down, at Keith’s hand, resting on the edge of the curb. He wants to take it, kiss the knuckles, have those hands that sketch out portals to different worlds touch him, shape him like wet clay. He could ask, or simply reach for him and kiss Keith right there on the curb like teenagers, allow chalk handprints to smear across his jacket, the pockets of his jeans. He won’t even go back into the office, just call off and play hooky and risk being fired, if only to have Keith to himself. 

But he doesn’t. He wants to hold onto at least a little of the self-control, the rules he’s played by all his life. 

“I don’t know,” he repeats, then fumbles for his camera. “Mind if I shoot this?”

* * *

At home, Shiro stares at his email. _What do you want?_

_I just look at something, grab whatever’s good about it._

Slowly, Shiro opens a new webpage, clicks through it, and brings up tab after tab. He likes the impassioned mission statement, the promise of new and more inclusive journalism. The news editor’s trying to revive her father’s company, but it’s clear this is _her_ vision. 

_We strive for not ‘traditional’ objective journalism — because everyone brings their own life experiences and biases to stories — but for fairness and sensitivity. I believe in the Ida B. Wells and Nellie Bly school of thought, where journalism should serve the downtrodden, the marginalized, the unheard… not simply a mouthpiece machine. We have several positions open, and to apply..._

And Shiro begins to type.

* * *

A deadly still silence. A shattering of glass, a jolt of an overturned wheel. A bright flash—

Shiro wakes up. Outside, it’s storming, thunder crashing, verberating deep into his bones, and he tries not to shake. His hand finds his phone, turns it on, _2 AM_ flashing across the screen. 

Notifications pop up on screen, too—calendar obligations, alarms, unread messages—and his finger skids across, swiping, before he has time to process. 

“Shiro?” A groggy voice asks. “Are you okay?” 

“Keith! I’m so sorry; it’s so late.” 

“No, don’t worry. I’m up away, and I really shouldn’t. But seriously, Shiro, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, then, “No emergencies or anything. I’m just…” He stares down at his hand picking at his quilt, threadbare around the edges. It had been a moving away-gift, brightly-colored with a card promising part of the profit went to some charity. “I can’t sleep, either.” 

“Do you have work tomorrow?” 

“Yeah, but in the afternoon. I kind of want to call out; I don’t think I can…” He huffs loudly into the receiver. “I’m sorry, Keith. It’s nothing you should worry about.” 

“Shiro, if it’s bothering me, I want to know. If you want to share.” 

Keith’s giving him an out, he knows. Something he’s learned about Keith is that as much as the group teases him about being the lone wolf, empathy runs deep inside him, as solid as bedrock. He sees it when a kid wanders off by themselves and Keith just knows whether to go and comfort them, or leave them alone; when Pidge frowns over the budget or Lance has relationship woes or Hunk worries over his grandma, and there’s an extra coffee and easier tasks at ready; when clothes or an extra lunch or a care package delivered in the dead of night makes their way into a cubbyhole or mailbox on his way home. There’s dignity to it, nothing that smacks of demanding a thank you or even an acknowledgement.

“I used to take photos all over the world,” he finally says, glad he doesn’t have to make eye contact with Keith. “Natural disasters. Wars. Famines. Riots. Rescues. Everything. And no matter what happened, what went down, I always got out okay. Not even a scratch.” 

Rain pounds on the nearby window, a steady, frantic rhythm, chill seeping into the tiny bedroom. 

“There was an IED,” he continues. “We were in a truck, and… I was the only one who made it out. The hospitalizations, the physical therapy, everything took a long time. So long that my paper decided they couldn’t wait for me, but one of my old colleagues offered me a job here, when it was over. A temporary thing.” Shiro pauses. “He was my fiance. We had broken up over work: my travel, my schedule. Maybe he thought we’d…in that lull. But that never happened.”

He fiddles again with the quilt. “It’s my fault,” he almost whispers, closing his eyes. “I wanted to go. I saw this story, about kids picking up land mines and thinking they’re toys and how they’re forced out of their future. I arranged the travel, to go to the villages and shoot, chose my writer and translator and... But it all went wrong.” 

“Shiro, it’s not your fault,” Keith replies softly. 

“It was just a story.” Shiro feels a hard lump in his throat. “I was ready to die for a story.” 

“No, it wasn’t. It wasn’t some cheap 9 to 5; you wanted to help. I know you did. But unless you planted that IED, then it wasn’t your fault.” Thunder crashes again, and Shiro flinches. “Shiro. It wasn’t.” 

There’s a shift, probably of blankets, on the other end. “I know what it’s like. When I was a kid, I was with my dad, with the fire crew. I wasn’t supposed to be there, but the sitter cancelled and I wanted to go on patrol. He thought it would be safe as long as he came along, too, and you know how kids are. They want to hear the siren and go fast, and he never said no to me, not really. Not after Mom... 

“But there was a call and it was too late to send me back, so I just sat in the truck and waited for him. I knew he’d come back, and he did and seemed fine, but he had a heart attack. Smoke inhalation.” Keith takes a deep breath. “It’s stupid, but I think if we weren’t on patrol, they wouldn’t have been the unit called in. If I didn’t want to ride on some stupid fire truck…” 

Shiro wants to reach out and touch him, put a hand on his arm and squeeze, but has to settle for “I’m so sorry, Keith. But it’s not your fault.” 

“That’s the moral of the story,” Keith says dryly, with a short gulp. “And in a weird way, it led me to what I do now. You just have to find someone, something that helps you heal. Rediscover your bliss, as Hunk says. Like photography. What do you like about it?” 

He thinks for a long time, watching the rain run down the window. “It’s the research, the planning, the lining up… and then you get something beautiful,” Shiro says slowly. “But sometimes, when nothing pans out, it’s the surprise.” 

There’s more Shiro wants to say, but suddenly, he feels as if he understands.

* * *

When Shiro wakes up the next morning, he rifles through his missed notifications, some left over from last night. But there’s one new message in his inbox: a nonprofit online news editor, Allura Altea, wants to meet him. For an _interview_. 

Something spins in his chest, and it’s a new feeling: relief. Joy. He wants this. And after yesterday, it feels like a sign. 

Speaking of last night, he dials Keith, intending to leave a message, but Keith picks up. “I’m sorry for last night,” Shiro blurts. “But I guess you knew all of that. Google and all.” 

“No,” Keith says. “I figure… if it’s not published, it’s not my business.” 

Shiro, to his surprise, finds himself laughing. “Keith. That’s not exactly the journalist spirit.” 

“Well, I’m not one,” Keith points out. “I skimmed through your site and portfolio, but I didn’t look into you, if you know what I mean. I assume you looked into me.”

Shiro winces. “A little.” 

“Hey, you’re a journalist. I expected that.” 

“Well, I’m not going to…” Shiro pauses, thinking how pissed Sanda and Iverson will be. “I don’t think I’m going to run the story.” 

“Wait, what?” 

“I mean, not with the Garrison. Maybe independently. Or I’ll pitch it elsewhere. Maybe at this new job interview.” 

The explosion of sound surprises him: “Congratulations!” 

“Don’t say that; I haven’t gotten it yet. But thanks. And thanks for last night again, even though I might have broken the old SPJ Code.” 

“Oh?”

There’s almost a playful curiosity in his tone, and Shiro wants it to mean something, so badly. “Society of Professional Journalists. Seek truth and report it. Minimize harm. Act independently. Be accountable and transparent,” he easily recites. “It applies to photographers too.” 

“So which ones have you broken?” 

“Not as bad as _Absence of Malice_ ,” Shiro jokes. 

There’s a long pause. “Uh. I don’t think I’ve seen that one.” 

“We had to watch it in ethics class. Sally Field, Paul Newman. It’s a classic. But depressing,” he babbles, trying to keep the conversation afloat. “And unethical.” 

Keith snickers. “What, there’s an illicit affair?” 

“Yes,” Shiro admits. “But it’s more complicated than that! There’s a murder, internal corrpution, phone taps, a terrible editor… you have to see it with me.” As a thank you, he wants to say, to leave himself an escape route, but doesn’t. 

This time, he wants to take a chance. 

Shiro can hear the smile in Keith’s voice. “Does Saturday work?”

* * *

In the end, Shiro’s right. Sanda’s _pissed._

“You wasted time and company resources,” she shouts, right in the middle of the cubicles, “and you’re not even filing it? It’s Garrison property!” 

“Technically,” Shiro says calmly, ignoring the interns’ open-mouthed stares, “I’m an independent contractor. I own my work, shot on my camera, so the copyright is mine.” He looks up at her, then at Iverson, who’s torn his eyes from the latest hockey game in favor of the (frankly) most exciting thing to happen at the Garrison Gazette. 

His interview’s tomorrow, but he knows this: Job or no job, he doesn’t want to spend another second here. 

Shiro gets to his feet, Sanda staring unflinchingly, and packs his things.

“What are you doing?” she demands. 

Shiro swings his camera bag around his neck, scans the desk for any valuables, and begins to log off, watching as the windows collapse and disappear in a blink. He waits to feel guilt, obligation, even a twinge of regret, but doesn’t. All he feels is relief, as if he’s packed up his old life in a box and shipped it off to storage. 

“I’m leaving. I have direct deposit, so I won’t be coming in for my last check.” He looks at Iverson. “Hire an actual photographer. With health insurance.”

To stunned silence from his editors and a brief second of snapping fingers from the interns, Shiro picks up his satchel and grabs his keys, then places the press badge in front of his keyboard. “Bye,” he says, and walks out the door for the last time.

* * *

Two weeks later, he’s curled up beside Keith on the couch in his mismatched panda socks and Thai takeout, watching Paul Newman and Sally Field fall into each other’s arms. Keith’s absentmindedly sketching in one of his many notebooks, another one of the paladins, grinning at Shiro’s laptop screen. “Oh, man.” 

“It gets worse,” Shiro promises, grabbing another handful of the popcorn. He’s trying his best not to move for the past hour, as Keith’s thigh has been gently pressing against his before the second scene began. He’s made out with _Anchorman_ and several movies about the Watergate scandal in the background, but hasn’t to this particular film. 

Yet. 

“Sorry for pushing this back, by the way,” he says instead. “Settling things with the Garrison was a process, and Sanda was threatening to sue because some of the interns walked out. And a few of the journalists.”

It had been a minor explosion, with j-Twitter clamoring to tell their experiences at the Garrison and lobbying for unions, for consequences, for cultural shifts. He doesn’t consider himself a whistleblower, not really, but that’s what they’re calling him now. 

If nothing else, Allura told him, it set a strong precedent for the site, and, she added with a faintly sarcastic smirk, good publicity. 

“But the good news is Allura wants to hire me.”

He doesn’t know who moves first, but Keith’s lips are on his, hand cupping his cheek, thumb tracing the edge of his scar. Shiro sighs against his lips, feeling sparks come to his fingertips, the same energy as shooting in the zone, intense and steady and frenzied, until Keith pulls away. 

“Can we even do this?” Keith asks teasingly. “Mr. SPJ?” 

“Sure,” Shiro says confidently. “Technically, I don’t start until next week, and I already told her I won’t cover this area because of… personal attachments. Ethically. If you want?” 

Keith actually rolls his eyes, but there’s a wide grin on his face that Shiro’s never seen. “ _Obviously_ ,” he says. 

He throws his sketchbook to one side, which Shiro notices later that Keith’s paladin has different armor and a familiar face, and the movie’s forgotten, but none of them seem to care. They’re beginning something new, and Shiro can’t wait to see what comes next. 


End file.
